Page 8 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“You okay?” he asked, his brows pinched with worry as he reached out to tap my arm. I swear the whole limb went warm.

“Yeah, why?” I resisted the urge to wipe my face clean of any half-cocked dreamy expressions or possible drool.

“It’s not often I see you walkpastthe museum.”

I laughed. Oh, that. “Mark your calendar.” I eyed his spiffy, navy blue security jacket. The colour suited him and his Norse, Viking-like good looks. Built, blond and with a fiercely loyal protector vibe that ran beneath his sweet kindness—that was my James. Whoever did the museum’s hiring had good eyesight and even better taste. Not that anyone would hire based on appearances these days. They’d get cancelled faster than a hacked credit card.

“I set something aside for you in the gift shop.”

“Really?” I caught myself leaning forward like an eager three-year-old who’d heard the word ‘present.’

“Want to see?” He was already walking backward, toward the museum, certain I’d follow.

“Yes!” I hooked my arm through his, spinning him around as we hurried to the doors. Even though he was a total hunk, and I sometimes got all tongue-twisted when I was with him, I felt comfortable in ways I didn’t around other guys. “I forgot my pass, though.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re with me.” He smiled with a warmth that assured me.

As we made our way inside, I asked, “Anyone try to touch the mummies today?”

James knew I was a sucker for museum stories. I’d had a fit the first time I saw a kid climbing around the mummies. I’d abandoned my inventory chart and pulled James over to scold the boy in what turned out to be our friendship’s Meet Cute.

Then, after he’d gently guided the child back to his parents, I’d chided James for his lack of severeness, even though I’d been swooning a bit for how sweet and firm he’d been. I’d given him quite the lecture about letting people climb on sacred, ancient items. His lips had quirked the whole time, like he’d been fighting a smile.

Then he’d leaned in and cemented our friendship with a tidbit I’d never once overheard while eavesdropping on the various tours throughout the museum. The mummies on display were fake. That was right. Reproductions. And not only that, he’d had a hand in making them one summer as part of the museum’s student hiring program.

Total. Swoon.

Honestly, if I’d actually paused to think about it, I should have figured out that they were reproductions. The ones on display didn’t send chills down my spine when I walked past them, unlike the ones in the back.

“Nobody even tried to touch a toe,” James assured me.

“Really? How boring.”

“And nobody tried to take a selfie from the wrong side of the rope or unravel any head wrappings.”

“Ew. Has someone actually tried to do that?” I might be a curious history nerd who was up for pretty much anything, but that idea completely grossed me out.

James smiled. It was sweet and slightly crooked in the most perfect way.

“We did have a shoplifter in the Tinkertorium.” That was the poorly chosen name for the museum’s gift shop—it always made me think of a bathroom. “She was trying to stuff a reproduction sword down her pants.”

I cringed, hoping the blade had a sheath, or at least was dull-edged.

“Did you have to personally retrieve it?” I tried to lift my eyebrows seductively, but honestly, I was too intrigued to pull it off. Plus, I really didn’t have the confidence to pull off true sexiness. You had to commit and put yourself out there, and at the last minute I always backed off, afraid I’d look like a complete idiot who had no clue she was far from what men considered sexy.

James laughed, his shoulder bumping into mine. “No.” His voice dropped. “I had to call 9-1-1.” He waved at Glenda. “Just showing Char the new stock.”

The woman let us in; her smile way bigger than when she encountered me on my own.

“You called to have her arrested?” I asked, bringing his attention back to his unfinished story, my mind fizzing with how James kept letting his body touch mine accidentally. Or was that on purpose? A sign that indicated he was into me? Maybe that was why I’d so few dates in recent years—I was illiterate when it came to men and their I’m-interested-in-you signs.

“The repros have fairly sharp edges, apparently.” He grimaced. “When she was trying to return the sword, it slid out of its sheath.”

I shuddered, my imagination going wild. “You’re exaggerating.” He did that here and there, knowing I loved the added drama.

“You’ll never know.” There was a twinkle in his warm eyes and it made me think of earthy, grounded pottery pieces and a feeling of belonging I couldn’t quite peg. As for the twinkle, I wasn’t sure if it was his joy in teasing me, or if he was tickled to have me stumped.

“I’m going to fact check with Glenda.”

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